


More Than Good

by paxnirvana



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxnirvana/pseuds/paxnirvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission gone wrong... and sanctuary sought.</p><p>(possible medical triggers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Good

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know that's a Sarah song below, but this isn't part of the Possesion Arc. Sorry. I've been at war with both my muses and life lately, and both seemed to be pacified with this. I hope you enjoy it too. 5/28/03

* * * * *
    
    
    So just let me try and I will be good to you  
    Just let me try and I will be there for you  
    I'll show you why you're so much more than good enough...
    
    'Good Enough'  
    -Sarah McLachlan

* * * * *

Pain. Pain lived in him, sharp and bright and clawing. He staggered down yet another alley, lost in the darkness and the wet. How long had he been in pain now? Forever? The totality of his existence had been reduced to basic animal reactions; escape, hide, flee. Avoid light and people. Seek out a place to lick his wounds. A place to recover. Somewhere safe.

Instinct had nearly taken him over, his eyes were narrow and savage beneath ragged bangs plastered to his face by endless rain. Fever-heat raged in the arm that refused to move on its own anymore. In the ache of his ribs, his side. Had he really fallen off a building and survived? Three floors ... a low one, after all. But if not for the pile of discarded boxes left in an alley, he would be dead now, he knew. But sodden cardboard and brittle wood could only do so much. He'd landed on his left side. Hard. His arm was broken, maybe ribs too and the point of his hip ached as if it could be cracked as well. Somehow he had managed to keep hold of his katana and he willfully damaged the lacquer saya by leaning on it, bracing himself with the sheathed weapon like a cane whenever he was forced to stagger along without a wall or something else to brace himself against beside him.

Alone. He was alone in the rain-drenched night. Hurt. Badly. He had to find safety.

He took the infrequent solo missions for the money. The pay was better when one worked alone. The jobs were cleaner in their way too, more direct. Go in and kill. No justification. No excuses. No reasons. Simply an obstruction to be eliminated, a human life to be ended on his true master's orders ... not Persia, but Kritiker. He took every one of those missions offered to him. Because he needed the cash. Always. For his sister. The bills piled up faster and faster for every ephemeral treatment the doctors proposed. Each new drug. Each new therapy. Each empty promise. And he let them, desperate for anything that would restore her and bring her sunshine-bright presence back to the world. No, it wasn't really for the money. He took these missions for his guilt.

Working alone was a relief in a way, even without backup. There was no questioning of his plans. No annoying chatter in an absent headset of teammates wasting valuable breath and focus on trivialities. No infuriating inquires as to his status. No one to drop an intrusive hand on his shoulder, or to give him a quick scan from jade-green eyes to verify if he was telling the truth or not. As if he couldn't be trusted to let them know he was impaired; the mission might be at risk if he was wounded. He was a professional, after all. Cold, remote, skilled. And, when necessary, part of the team. But without them, was he truly Wei゜? Or only something darker? Colder? Something that deserved to die in a back alley like this, alone?

He tripped over an unseen crack in the pavement, boots splashing through a muddy puddle that concealed a deeper hole. He stumbled hard, almost going to his knees. Pain radiated through him, bright and savage. Off balance, he fell against a dumpster with a loud clatter, mind and thought vanishing into the red-bright flash of agony as he clutched at his broken arm. He might have screamed, he couldn't tell anymore, his ears hollow with the feel of his own pulse, his throat raw with the rasp of his own labored breaths. Rain fell over his face like uncaring tears from the sky, cold and pervasive.

He had to find safety... a place he could rest. Panting desperately, he looked up, squinting at the battered signs nearby through the rain-blurred night, unable to make sense of them in his state. But it didn't matter. They wouldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Safety was still far away. And how could there be such a place for him anyway? He was a flawed being. A sinner. A killer. And alone... always alone... yet...

The ache in his side stabbed deep with every ragged breath, driving all thought away again, scattering it like paper in the wind. How long had he been in pain? Forever. But safety existed. He knew it somehow. Craved it, sought it or he wouldn't still be on his feet. The instinct for survival was fierce, driving him on with the need to reach what he needed before it was too late. The animal within wanted to live. But did he, anymore? Was it worth it? What waited for him but more pain? Trembling, sickened, aching, he felt his way slowly along the debris that littered the alleyway, heedless of filth and clutter, using whatever he could to keep himself upright.

He knew if he went down again, it would be the end. He would die here in the dark. Alone.

The saya scraped loudly against brick as he staggered around another corner, nothing familiar anymore in the dark, wet pain-blur of the night. Another endless tunnel of blackness stretched before him. His lips were moving in a silent word. A name. An inaudible chant to keep him going down the whole length of this next hellish corridor. Then another corner at last. A pause while what was left of his mind tried to locate his position through the ever-growing pain.

Was this a familiar street at last? Something in him cried a warning. He shouldn't be here. He was too conspicuous like this here in this place. It was too dangerous. It would compromise all of them. But the pain drove him on, the animal overruling the remnants of his reason. Safety was close. Close enough to say.

"Yohji..."

He stumbled forward into blackness.

* * * * *

Pacing was getting old. Particularly when one didn't have room enough for more than three strides at a time without getting drenched. Shit. Chain-smoking was getting old too. Yohji Kudoh stood in the alley behind the Koneko under the awning above the back door and pitched the latest smoked-down butt of nearly an entire pack out into the wetness beyond. It hissed out sharply, the sound a brief counterpoint to the droning downpour. He lifted his head and stared up into the low, sodden clouds that shrouded the glow of a Tokyo night in their thick gray embrace. It would be fog if they would just drop the last few hundred yards or so and actually hit the ground, but instead they hovered stubbornly just above the local rooftops, content to disgorge their contents in a continuous, penetrating flood on everything below.

Not a fit night for man or beast to be out, he mused darkly as he leaned back against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he watched the rain fall. Which just figured that Aya would take a solo mission for tonight, the stubborn bastard. Making no concession for the weather. Brushing off his scarcely voiced concern with a cold look and a sharply turned shoulder. No, he certainly didn't need any help. It was a simple assignment. And no, he wouldn't give Yohji any details. That wasn't how a solo assignment worked. Kritiker frowned on agents who couldn't keep their mouths shut about missions. Yohji should know that by now.

The biting scorn in half-lidded violet eyes had sent Yohji out of the other man's room - where he had dare intrude while Aya readied himself for his mission ... and down here hours ago. It was the only place other than the roof or his room where he could smoke as much as he wanted without the others bitching at him. The rooftop walk had no shelter from the rain and he hadn't wanted to be inside any more. Hadn't wanted to be nearby when he left. Fog would have stopped the bastard, he knew. But it was just rain, Aya said. And so, furious and frustrated, Yohji had watched the white Porsche disappear down this very alley into the night a few minutes later, the headlights barely illuminating the road ahead through the downpour. Had even flicked the cigarette he had been currently smoking after it in a petty, disdainful gesture.

 _Just rain? Yeah, well fuck you too, Aya Fujimiya_ , he had thought angrily. _See if I care if you drown in it..._

Even as he'd thought it, he'd known it was a lie. Because he did care, damned fool that he was. When and where and exactly how he'd come to care so much for the other man, he didn't know, but it seemed as if he'd always at least had a heightened awareness of him. Since the second time he saw him, unconscious on the floor of the Koneko. Intrigued by the unusual combination of deep red hair and pale skin, perhaps those superficial features had been what initially prompted him to carry the other man to his bed. But it was the oddly fragile, too-young face filled with despair even in restless unconsciousness that had stirred his long-dormant protectiveness, touched his guilt-sealed heart. Giving birth to an odd need to watch over this near-stranger whom he had last seen spitting defiance and rage and frustration, trapped in the strands of his own wire as Birman made him the offer that none of them had been able to refuse. He'd stayed by his side until he woke that day. He'd been unable to keep himself from watching over him ever since.

Stupid, really. Because Aya didn't need him to watch over him. More, Aya didn't _want_ him to watch over him. At least he managed to remember that most of the time... but tonight...

He closed his eyes, letting out his breath in a long, irritated hiss. He was too restless to go back inside again and listen to Ken watch one of his pointless soccer games on the big screen downstairs. Too uneasy to endure Omi's concerned looks, his soft-voiced comments that Aya knew what he was doing on his own, didn't he, since he'd been doing it for six months before joining them, right? He scrubbed both hands over his face wearily. Why the fuck hadn't he taken that cute secretary he'd met in the club last night up on her offer of a date tonight? Simply because he'd known Aya was going to be out on a mission alone tonight, of course. He cursed out loud this time, but the harsh words did nothing to soothe him.

Where the hell was Aya? The only information they'd been able to get out of him... and it was Omi who got it from him, damn it ... was that he expected to return by 2 AM. It was nearly 5 o'clock now.

He shoved himself away from the wall angrily, glaring at the rain. Intent on going back inside to see if, by some miracle, Aya had called to tell Omi why he was delayed. Maybe the Porsche had a fucking flat or there was some other incredibly mundane reason for him to be nearly three hours late coming home. But inside, he knew that wasn't it. Fear clawed at the back of his throat, making him want to scream. He fought it back grimly.

He lingered a minute longer, staring at the far end of the alley where he had last seen the white Porsche. Willed it to turn the corner again as he watched. But nothing moved in the street beyond. There was no sound of an approaching engine; he could hear nothing but the steady, endless drumming of rain stretching his nerves tighter and tighter. So tight that a sudden clatter in the alley behind him had him jumping. Something shifted against the trash piled back there. A rat maybe, or a feral cat too desperate with hunger to stay out of the drenching rain. He looked over his shoulder, distracted, frowning into the darkness. Saw a shadow moving there. Too big to be a rat... or even a dog.

His heart pounded suddenly in his chest. He sprinted out into the rain, heedless of the fact that he was instantly soaked. A huddled form clad in sodden leather leaned against a broken packing crate behind the shop next door, clutching some kind of stick in one hand. Yohji moved closer, wary of a trick if it turned out to just be some bum or druggie wandering around in a stupor. But as he drew close, the rain-darkened head rose unsteadily, giving him a glimpse of familiar pale skin and glittering eyes. And of the blood trickling from the corner of a gasping mouth.

"Aya! Fuck! Aya!" he called, lunging forward. The other man swayed toward him, almost eagerly, it seemed ... or maybe he just fell ... and Yohji suddenly had his arms full of soaked leather and trembling man. The sheathed katana was still gripped tightly by the hilt in one hand, but it looked as if Aya had been using it as a crutch. He'd never knowingly treat his weapon that way, Yohji knew; dread surged.

"Yohji..." His name was barely more than a whisper, scarcely audible above the pounding rain. He clutched Aya close, arms wrapping around the other man, but his eyes widened in shock when Aya gave a choked scream and suddenly went limp against him. The katana clattered down on the wet pavement beside them, unheeded.

It was only then that he noticed the unnatural way Aya's left arm hung. Broken. Fuck. Yohji gathered the other man as gently as he could into his arms and carried him back to the shop. A sodden red head rolled loosely over his arm, rain beating on the slack face without response; the lean body he held trembled with chill. He kicked at the back door furiously, unable to spare a hand to open it, shouting for Omi. Uncaring of the noise he made. Aya groaned in his arms, lips moving but no words coming out.

"It's okay baby, I've got you. You'll be okay, Aya-love..." Tender words he didn't even know he was saying spilled out of him in an anxious stream before turning angry at the delay. Aya was drawn and haggard and barely breathing. He kicked the door again. "Damn it! Omi! Get the hell down here!"

The door finally yielded and he bulled his way inside past a glowering, disheveled Ken. The glower quickly vanished in favor of shock when the other man recognized the sodden form in Yohji's arms.

"What the hell happened to him?"

"Fuck if I know... wake up Omi... he's hurt bad..." Yohji snarled, moving for the stairs. His only thought was of getting Aya into his room and onto the bed, stripping him of his wet things and warming him up as soon as possible. That arm... hopefully that was the extent of it... but fear was heavy in his gut. A simple broken arm wouldn't make Aya lean on his precious katana like that...

"He's freakin' soaked... did he walk all the way back here or something?" Ken demanded, trailing him up the stairs, annoying and useless.

"Fuck if I know!" Yohji snarled again, then he shouted toward the other apartment door as they reached the first floor. "Omi! Get your ass out of bed, now! And bring the medical kit!"

Omi's door flew open, the boy stumbling half-dressed into the hall in tee-shirt and boxers, rubbing at blinking eyes.

"Yohji-kun! What's going on?"

Yohji ignored his question, stalking toward his own room. He'd managed to juggle Aya further onto his shoulder to free one hand, aware that every motion was causing the redhead pain by the low moans that came from him. Aya coughed weakly against his neck and he felt something hot and moist come with it. A shudder of apprehension swept through him. No. Not more blood. Please not more blood, he pleaded frantically inside.

His room was warm, at least, and well-lit. He'd stormed out without shutting off the lights earlier when he came in for his cigarettes. Now he was grateful for the lapse. It let him pick his way across the messy floor without stumbling, aware, dimly of Ken following him in.

"Shit, don't put him on the bed yet! Get that damn coat off him," Ken said, reaching toward him as if to take Aya out of his arms. Yohji surprised them both by snarling at him, throat too tight for words, his expression savage. Ken took a hurried step back, raising his hands palms out to placate him.

"Okay, maybe not... shit... what's with you?" Yohji glanced down toward the huddled form in his arms, feeling the strain in his arms and back from carrying another fully grown man hit him at last. Sheer adrenaline and fear had gotten him this far, but he knew he couldn't hold Aya like this forever.

"Just... unbuckle the coat. I've got him," Yohji managed through the tightness in his throat. Ken stepped warily closer to comply. He had just undone the first of the buckles on the maroon leather trenchcoat when Omi came sliding into the room, the bulky satchel that they used for their medical supplies slung over his shoulder. He was panting and wide-eyed and anxious.

"Where's he hit? There's blood on the stairs..." Omi said urgently.

"Don't know yet... left arm's broken at least... I saw that outside," Yohji said, inching his burden toward the bed even as Ken finally managed to get the last of the buckles free. Together they somehow rolled Aya out of the coat and lowered him onto Yohji's wide bed, both of them hissing in alarm when they saw the state of his left arm beneath the coat. The skin was badly torn on his forearm, and what had to be the white end of bone was poking through. It looked like there was blood on his side as well beneath his tight black shirt, and there was that worrying trail of blood from his mouth too. Broken ribs and a pierced lung, maybe; Aya's breathing was rough. Yohji and Ken fixed each other with distressed stares. This wasn't something they could treat here. They'd have to get Aya to a hospital.

"Open fracture," Ken said grimly, taking a step back, dragging the waterlogged leather coat with him. Yohji had braced himself over Aya's body, staring down at his arm and side. Omi moved up beside the bed, dropping to his knees beside it, a hand rising to roll back one of Aya's eyelids.

"Maybe a concussion too," Omi added, darting Yohji a worried look. "What happened?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me?" Yohji snapped furiously, wishing just as furiously that he did know. "I was smoking out back and he came stumbling up using his katana as a cane... damn! It's still out there... in the alley..."

"I'll get it," Ken said, spinning away only to come to an abrupt stop in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at them with a frown. "Wait! Where's his car?"

"Hell if I know... I said he _walked_ up," Yohji said, glaring at the other man for the apparent triviality, mind focused on the man in his bed.

"Then how are we getting him to the hospital?"

Yohji cursed vilely and ran one hand through his wet hair. The Super Seven was too small to get a man as badly injured as this inside it ... plus the canvas top had been torn by vandals and was still out for repairs. Fucking custom workers took their time. There was no way he was subjecting Aya to more rain and wet tonight.

"Magic Bus doesn't have an ambulance," Omi stated the obvious. Kritiker expected their agents to get their own asses in for any emergency medical care needed. To do otherwise would attract far too much attention. He met Omi's worried gaze briefly, then Ken's.

"Then call a regular fucking ambulance!" Yohji spat.

"What do we tell them?" Omi said. Ken had turned back, frowning in concern. This affected them all. If Aya's injuries attracted too much attention to them... to Wei゜...

Yohji glared at them both, then shifted his gaze down to Aya, unaware how it softened when he did so. He stared at the blood on Aya's chin, noted the pained, shallow way he was breathing. They had no choice.

"Tell them he fell down the stairs or something... I don't care! Just get them here!"

Ken nodded and took off. Decision made, Yohji looked the redhead over for anything incriminating. With the coat gone, only the high boots with the knives concealed in the inseams might be a giveaway. But before he could move down to take them off, Aya began to choke and gasp for air. Omi was already up, grabbing his shoulders and lifting him, to clear his airway and take pressure off his chest. It helped some, but Aya was still struggling to breathe freely. Yohji climbed behind him, bracing him upright with his own body, wrapping the lean form carefully in his arms, painfully aware of each labored breath Aya took, of the blood now beginning to foam on pale lips.

"Rib in the lung," Yohji muttered, trading worried looks with Omi. "Tell them to fucking hurry!"

Omi scampered out on Ken's heels to add urgency to the call, leaving Yohji alone in his room with a gasping Aya clutched in his arms.

And he wondered sickly if they would be fast enough...

* * * * *

The waiting room for the hospital emergency room was a stark, cheerless place, even once morning had come. It probably had something to do with the heavy curtains of rain that still fell outside, making morning seem more like twilight. Or maybe it was just the miasma of old despair that seemed to linger in the walls despite the fresh paint and brightly colored flowers that graced the nurse's desk. Flowers had no ability to cheer any of them any longer.

Yohji stood by the windows, hands shoved into the tight front pockets of his low-slung jeans and glared outside, wishing desperately for a cigarette. His cool fa軋de had worn off hours ago. Behind him, Ken had fallen asleep with his head back on one of the uncomfortable chairs and was snoring faintly, while Omi was tapping away at his laptop, only occasionally throwing Yohji anxious, unhappy looks.

He'd snapped at the kid one too many times, it seemed, while they waited.

It was not the Magic Bus hospital. They hadn't been able to talk the paramedics into diverting to Kritiker's pet hospital, the territorial bastards. However, Omi had already made the necessary call to inform their masters. Manx had promised to take care of any intrusive questions and paperwork for them right away and, as soon as he was able, Aya would be transferred to the Magic Bus. But for now they could only wait.

He'd been rushed straight into surgery on arrival. His left lung, partially collapsed already by the two broken ribs that had pierced it, had collapsed further in the ambulance.

The paramedics had set his arm on the way, but the lung was the most worrisome injury. As well as the fever that now raged in the redhead's body. Too long injured, too long out in the drenching rain with wounds untreated, walking who knew how far across Tokyo to reach the Koneko...

The phone rang on the nurse's desk. She picked it up, listening intently for a moment before answering quietly, her suddenly anxious gaze flickering over the three young men in the waiting room. Two of them, at least, were staring anxiously back at her. She covered the receiver with her hand and called out, "Excuse me, but is one of you named Yohji?"

Yohji spun all the way around, frowning. "I'm Yohji," he answered, even as Omi nodded toward him. Ken jerked awake, jumping to his feet and scanning the room swiftly, placing them all in that single glance, hands fisted tightly at his sides. Omi spoke softly to him and patted his arm in an attempt to calm him ... only the three of them truly understood what that reaction meant.

The nurse spoke into the phone again then hung it up as she surged to her feet. "Come with me, please," she said urgently. "They need you in the recovery room, sir. There is some... difficulty with the patient..."

"What's the matter? Is he okay?" Yohji demanded, stomach sinking. The nurse just shook her head.

"If you池e Yohji, they need your help now," was all she said.

"Go, Yohji-kun," Omi said, nodding at him. As if he needed encouragement.

Yohji strode along after the young nurse, blood singing anxiously in his veins. She led him at a brisk trot to an elevator marked 'Staff Only'. The door opened instantly when she pushed the call button and they stepped inside. She pushed the button for one floor down and glanced at him, biting at her lower lip in some concern.

"What's going on?" he demanded. She shook her head at him, flushing. This was clearly an unusual situation for her, taking someone into the recovery room like this.

"I don't know, sir, I'm sorry. They only said to bring you down immediately."

The elevator door opened on noisy chaos. There were clusters of flustered nurses in uniform standing around, talking and pointing down the hall toward another room. He could hear medical alarms going off somewhere. A few of the nurses were treating orderlies who looked a little worse for wear, bandages held to a bloody mouth or supporting an awkwardly held wrist. And Yohji suddenly had a better idea what was going on. He pushed through the people toward what looked to be the heart of the disturbance, a room half-way down the wide hall on the left. A scrubs-wearing doctor ... a grim look on his face as he tapped a filled hypodermic with his fingernail ... was talking urgently with two burly male orderlies outside.

"...don't really want to give him this sedative ... it's too soon after anesthesia... Hey! You can't go in there!" the doctor spluttered as Yohji pushed between them, moving for the room they were guarding.

"I'm Yohji," he snarled over his shoulder, knocking one set of grabbing hands way before fixing them all with a forbidding glare. "You called me... now back off or more of you are going to need first-aid." They subsided, apparently not eager to mix it up with him just yet. The doctor ... maybe the attending anesthesiologist ... just gulped and gestured him on. Appeased, he turned his attention on the tumbled room beyond.

Aya was crouched beside a gurney, right arm braced on the mattress. IV tubes were scattered everywhere and a breathing tube dangling awkwardly from tape near his mouth. Yohji winced at the sight. Had Aya yanked that out himself? The monitoring equipment ... disconnected from a body ... was emitting a steady warning shriek, adding to the tension and the sense of imminent danger. Even naked, disoriented and in pain, Aya had managed to fight off what looked like half a dozen people. Of course these people hadn't wanted to hurt him... but training like his was hard to overcome. Aya frowned at his entrance, gaze tracking on him slowly. His violet eyes were almost black in his bloodless face they were dilated so wide, Yohji saw. He was heavily bandaged on his left side where they'd patched up his lung and tacked his ribs together so they wouldn't pierce it again, while his left arm was still encased in the air-cast the paramedics had put it in. He was white-lipped and pale, as if every breath pained him.

Yohji stepped further into the room, hands spread before him and moving slowly so as not to startle the other man with any sudden moves. He'd gone through enough surgery and recovery himself that he remembered the disjointed sensations, the odd panic that came from coming out of anesthesia. And Aya had done it alone and in a strange place with no memory of how he'd got there. It was no wonder he'd flipped out. The Magic Bus people at least knew what to expect from their agents ... they simply strapped them securely to the bed and ignored any screaming until they had full control of themselves again.

"Aya, damn it, what are you doing?"

"Y-yo-hji," Aya gasped, gaze moving up to his face jerkily. The frown deepened. "Yoh-ji?"

"None other," he said soothingly taking another step toward the crouched man. "We just got you patched up, Aya, don't go breaking yourself up again, okay?"

Aya struggled to stand then, hollow gaze fixed on his face as he clawed at the gurney beside him. It shifted slightly, unbalancing him so that he fell back down again, but he didn't seem to notice, his gaze still locked on Yohji. "Safe?" he said, the word somehow charged. His eyes were wild, glassy. Yohji felt something heavy settle in his chest, his heart stuttering. He forced a reassuring smile to his lips.

"Yeah, babe, you're safe," Yohji said quietly, moving the last few steps to the redhead's side and crouching down beside him. Aya crumpled against him with a shuddering sigh, body gone instantly slack. He held him awkwardly, wary of damaged ribs and broken arm and tangled tubes, but buried his face in heavy red hair for a moment, closing his eyes to better savor the feel of Aya lying so trustingly against him.

"Yohji-san?" he heard from behind him. With a grunt, he turned enough to look over his shoulder at the doorway. The doctor was blinking in at him hesitantly, the hypodermic held non-threateningly in his hand now. An orderly hovered beside him, clearly ready to protect the doctor if necessary. Yohji didn't blame the guys for acting nervous, but Aya was defused for the moment. He noticed the pretty little nurse who had led him down here standing behind the small group and smiled encouragingly at her. She seemed amazed by the ease with which he'd pacified Aya, staring at him in awe. Truthfully, he was a little taken aback by it as well.

"It's okay now. Probably the fewer the better in here, 'tho." The doctor nodded in understanding and turned to have an urgent discussion with the two orderlies. "Hey, can you do something about these machines, sweetheart?" Yohji smiled at the nurse. "Feels like my teeth are going to fall out of my head from the noise."

"Sure," she said, giving him a brave little smile and slipping by the men into the room. They didn't try to stop her. She flipped a few switches and sudden, blessed silence fell on the room. He could hear the pained rasp of Aya's breathing now; felt the excess warmth of his body. The nurse hesitantly came over to help him untangle the IV lines from some of the half-removed monitoring sensors. Then she stood back and watched as he eased Aya up and back on to the slanted gurney. She produced a thin hospital sheet from somewhere and helped him spread it over Aya's trembling body. Yohji smiled his thanks at her until he felt the clutch of Aya's good hand on his arm and looked down. Glassy violet eyes were locked onto him, a frown drawing down the dark brows.

"Stay," Aya breathed. Yohji caught Aya's hand, holding it just a breathless heartbeat too long before setting it down atop Aya's immobile left hand where it already lay on his sheet-covered stomach.

"I'm not going anywhere," Yohji answered softly, voice thick. Drugs were making Aya say it like that, he quickly reminded himself. Drugs and the knowledge that he was in an exposed location. But the request still tore at him. "You can relax. You're safe."

Aya's eyes fluttered closed after a moment and his head rolled to the side. He seemed to fall asleep for a while then or at least he let himself succumb to the dregs of the anesthetic.

Yohji heard footsteps behind him. Not the nurse's. "He woke up fighting," a man said quietly. Yohji glanced back, tacitly acknowledging the doctor. The man frowned. "We tried to restrain him, but it only made him more violent. He broke one orderly's nose, sprained the other's wrist. After he pulled out the airway he started calling your name..." The doctor gave him a sharp, speculative look. "You guys some kind of soliders?"

"Why do you say that?" Yohji asked cautiously, his fisted hand resting on the bed near Aya's arm. Not quite touching him. Aya's request had rattled him. Not that he hadn't planned on staying by the redhead's side anyway... but to have Aya _ask_...

"Civilians don't get collections of scars like that," the doctor said, nodding his head down at Aya's pale body hidden by the sheet. "He's young... twenty, twenty-two maybe. He'd have to have seen a lot of action to get all of those."

"He was with U.N. Peacekeeping Forces," Yohji said quietly, thinking fast and going with the doctor's military speculation. What the hell was that place called again? "In Kosovo."

The doctor raised a brow, made a low sound of dismay as he glanced down at Aya again. "Really? I hadn't heard it was that dangerous there."

"Civil war and ethnic unrest ... not pretty. Hey, do you think he did himself any damage when he got up?" Yohji asked, glancing down at Aya too, desperately hoping the doctor would drop the subject. He'd have to be sure to remember what he'd let the guy believe, so that later Manx and Omi could build a credible cover for Aya, just in case. But the question worked beautifully, the doctor ... who was the anesthesiologist as he'd thought ... went off into medical-speculation land for a while, but the upshot of it all was that since Aya wasn't coughing up blood again, that he was probably fine... except for the fever. Had he had malaria once or something?

No, but he had been outside in the rain for at least four hours with a hole in his lung. But he couldn't tell the doctor that without raising more questions. So for a silent moment Yohji tried to remember if he'd ever heard Omi mention anything odd about Aya's medical records, but reluctantly had to concede he hadn't. They were all regularly tested by Kritiker for blood-borne and other diseases; not for sexual promiscuity, as Ken like to ride him about, but because Siberian and Abyssinian used the kind of weapons that occasionally got one or more of them drenched in a target's blood. And the people who were their usual targets might not bother with things like safe sex or not sharing needles. Healthy assassins were productive assassins in Kritiker's eyes, Yohji understood. Their latest batch of tests had been clean, Omi had told them just last week, so it seemed as if they'd all somehow managed to avoid anything permanent so far. If Kritiker was bothering to tell them the truth, that was...

"I don't know," Yohji said, shrugging for the doctor's benefit. Which was mostly the truth too. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not if it responds to antibiotics and antipyretics. We should know soon."

"When can he be transferred?" Yohji asked as Aya's eyes fluttered slowly open again, locking on him immediately. He gave him a half-smile that Aya failed utterly to respond to, the violet gaze staying solemn and weary. It was a look he definitely wasn't used to seeing on Aya's face.

"Transferred?" the doctor said incredulously. "He's just come out of surgery. That lung shouldn't be under any more pressure for a day at least..."

"I'll walk..." Aya said, lips held in a grim line, the words wiping away any tender thoughts Yohji might have been mistakenly hoarding about him.

"No you won't you stubborn bastard," Yohji snapped at him in a low tone, furious and annoyed, gaze all but spitting fire. The nurse on the other side of the bed gasped in alarm. He glanced at her briefly, unable to spare her any kind of reassuring smile as he jerked his attention back to Aya. "I'll have them tie you to this bed if you get stupid like that again."

Aya glared back at him. The doctor was spluttering beside them, spouting more medical jargon and looking anxious again, so Yohji braced one hand on the raised gurney behind Aya's far shoulder and leaned down close over him.

"Four hours and you're in Magic Bus," he growled into Aya's face, too low for the doctor and nurse to hear. The violet eyes blinked at him once, surprised, then matched his narrow glare. "Try to get up before then, and _I'll_ take great pleasure in tying you to this bed."

Aya didn't flinch from the threat but he saw reluctant acceptance slowly dawn in his eyes.

"You stay."

"You bet," Yohji shot back, pleased that he'd won.

"No smoking," Aya added with the slightest of smug curls to his mouth. Yohji cursed then, shoving back from Aya and glaring down at him furiously where he lay, pale and weary against the mattress. But more than recovered enough, in Yohji's opinion, if he was up to being his usual, pitiless self. Because honestly, until Aya deliberately brought it up, he'd forgotten all about his craving. But the mention brought it raging back, making his fingers immediately twitch with the urge to light up.

"Sadistic bastard," Yohji snapped, folding his arms over his chest sullenly, while Aya just let his eyes fall closed again, still looking vaguely satisfied.

Yohji looked at his still face and suddenly forgot all about his nicotine craving again in the face of another, far stronger drug. Hope.

* * * * *

The tearing pain had faded until it became a far more manageable ache, localized in his chest and side and his left arm. He'd found safety in green eyes again. He could rest at last. The reassuring rumble of the other man's voice in the background kept him calm, kept most of the disorientation and desperation the slowly returning pain prompted away as the last of the anesthesia faded.

He was safe. Yohji had promised to stay.

He dimly remembered the first waking. Dimly remembered wild panic and the feel of something in his throat preventing him from calling for the safety he craved. He had fought with the strength of his desperation, his fear despite the appalling weakness of his body. Feeling flesh yield to his blows regardless, sensing the unknown others only as they fell away. He had clawed at the obstruction until he could summon safety, heedless of the sting. After a time, safety had come, and he had recognized it immediately, slumping into Yohji's arms again, quiet at last.

Yohji had helped him back onto the recovery room gurney and after a bit of reassurance, he had let himself fall back into restless sleep, disturbed by the steadily rising ache. He didn't ask for more medication, but they gave it to him anyway. At some later time, he felt hands on him, moving him, but he didn't fight because a low, familiar voice told him not to ... to just relax and let them take care of him. So he had let them, tensing only when he didn't hear the voice for a while, distress rising. Unaware that he was calling for it. A rough, strong hand in his had stopped all that and he had slipped into dreamless sleep for a longer while.

Waking another time had been slow and hazy, the panic absent as he woke to the sound of the voice he expected. Eventually he had recognized the other voices conversing with it; Omi and Ken, Manx, Dr. Hito of the Magic Bus Hospital. He had wanted to ask about his sister. Had wanted to be taken to see her, but felt too drained to even ask. Felt too drained to even open his eyes.

But he didn't need to. He was safe. A few words popped into clarity.

"Yohji-kun, you need to go home and get some sleep. You've been here all night."

"Not yet." A soft laugh. The hand that held his tightened briefly. "He tries to climb out of bed if I'm not here, you know."

"Then we can ask the doctor to sedate him..."

"No, he's been out too long already." A heavy sigh followed by the sound of hair being ruffled by a clever hand. "I'll be fine, chibi. Thanks for worrying."

It was a thing perhaps imagined, the open concern in that voice that so often teased or challenged or taunted him. But despite those things, he'd always known the green eyes were watching him. Looking for him, always. Placing him in rooms, on missions, in the shop. A constant, subtle awareness that he had somehow come to depend on to confirm his existence. He was not invisible. He was still alive. Not just a dead name carved into cold granite. Not just a placeholder for a girl who lay forever unmoving in a bed eerily like this. Not just the sum of his sins, measured by the hot blood that lapped at his ankles, rising steadily higher with each mission accepted...

He was warm now. Too warm. Cloyingly hot. The sting in his throat, the hitch in his side had become a damp, clogging drag. He struggled for breath, against the pain, against the resistance... blood... drowning in blood...

Things became a blur then, of heat and restlessness and a bone-deep ache that nothing eased. Dim memories remained of hands on him, stroking coolness across his drawn skin. Of needles in his arm. Of the raw taste of bile. Of coughing, the agony in his side like to rip him apart ... feeling strong arms hold him up at those times, a pillow pressed carefully to his side to cushion the strain on his ribs. Of fingers that stroked soothingly through his hair, over and over, when he was still.

"Are you trying to tell me he walks half-way across fucking Tokyo in the pouring rain with his lung skewered by his own ribs and recovers fine, but he gets put in this place ... a freakin' hospital ... and two days later contracts fucking bacterial fucking pneumonia? You have got to be kidding me! He's out of here. No, forget it, Ken! We're taking him home. Or he's as good as fucking dead, you hear me? They put in the damn shunt but he still can't kick this shit here... he's going home. _Now._ Omi, make it fucking _happen_."

He didn't know why he remembered that brief tirade so clearly, but his dazed mind held on to it as a kind of talisman against the endless pain and fatigue and darkness. Perhaps it was the raw outrage in a voice meant for languid teasing or husky promises in the night ... even though there had never been any of that for him. The weariness in it. The desperation. Or perhaps it was the genuine fear beneath it all. Fear for him...

He knew he was likely dying then; each breath had become a laborious process, almost like moving water, thick and heavy, through his chest. They had stuck tubes in his nose to make certain he was getting enough oxygen. Had stuck another for a while in his side to drain off excess fluid from inside his lung. He hated it. Hated the weakness, the heat, the lethargy. Hated that without the strong hand in his he felt like he was drowning. But he wouldn't succumb. He wouldn't release that hand. The stubborn strength that had driven him up on that dark, rainy night so long ago to stumble to his sister's side... that had kept him going, seeking, striving for any way to achieve his vengenance... that had driven him, broken and desperate, to cross Tokyo on a similar dark, rainy night to reach the only thing that made him feel safe... that stubborn strength had still not deserted him.

Long fingers, clever and gentle, stroked through his sweat-damp hair again. His eyes opened slowly. Looked into worried green for a moment that might have been eternity. Then he let his heavy lids fall again.

Stubborn. Yes. Stubborn.

But perhaps there was a real reason to keep fighting after all.

* * * * *

Yohji sat in the kitchen of the Koneko, staring down at an unopened pack of cigarettes on the table before him, exhaustion and despair like a weight on his shoulders bearing him down.

It had seemed so simple in the hospital. Get him out. Get him somewhere he didn't feel so exposed. Get him home.

He didn't know how Omi had managed it - maybe it had been Manx or even Persia himself - but the arrangements had swiftly been made. Major illness wasn't something Kritiker handled well. They commanded, they didn't nurture. Agents who were unable to perform were generally removed until they were restored to full function again. But Yohji had made it abundantly clear that he would not abandon Aya. And the other two Weiß, surprisingly, had been united behind their teammate. That had left Kritiker with little choice but to comply or lose all of their best team. They had agreed to leave Aya with Weiß for now, but Manx had warned them not to push their luck further. He would come home but only with the services of a 24-hour nurse. If he didn't improve by the end of the week, back he would go to the Magic Bus. There were no promises in that stark statement. No assurances further measures would be allowed.

But what could the hospital do anyway if his gamble failed? Yohji had pushed despite the risk, determined, certain it was the only way Aya would survive.

It had been a hard transfer. Painful, as the healing of Aya's ribs had been greatly slowed by the seemingly endless coughing that pneumonia induced. During the ride in the makeshift ambulance, Aya had watched him from behind a heavy oxygen mask, his eyes glittering fever-bright and intent. Yohji had sat beside him in silence, holding that gaze like a promise, even though it left him feeling scraped and raw inside.

The transfer had been done at night in an unmarked van to draw as little attention to them as possible. No sense feeding the local myths about the four young male florists any more than necessary. Aya had been carried inside through the garage in total privacy, then taken upstairs on a stretcher and settled in Yohji's room. Yohji had insisted on that point and the others had not had any reason to argue.

Oxygen bottles and IV stands and a respiration monitor had followed, as well as a set of custom-cut foam cushion wedges to raise his head elevation on a regular bed. Some of the cushion covers had apparently come from a pediatric ward and were in candy-bright colors. One of them even had little yellow chickens and white ducks and blue balloons all over it. When Yohji had first caught sight of Aya laid out against that cushion, he hadn't been able to suppress a small smile. Aya would hate that cushion once he was lucid enough to perceive the pattern. Yohji silently vowed to keep it in place at the top of the stack until he did.

The nurse assigned to them was one of Kritiker's own and very well trained. She immediately set about making certain her patient was stable; checking his IV, checking his temperature and respiration, verifying his next dose of pain medication. And making no comments at all about the framed prints of naked women that adorned the room's walls. In fact, she said little that wasn't about her patient's care and asked no questions of the rest of them. She frankly scared the hell of out Yohji. She was fifty if she was a day, a plain and solid woman, and her cool professionalism never changed no matter what one said or did around her. It was reassuring, in a way, to think that nothing would panic her, but one also had to wonder if she would even care if something happened to her patient, or if it would only be another box to check on her chart.

They set up a futon in the room for her, but he had yet to see her use it. Yohji spent his own time in a chair beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them until needed.

Aya had apparently recognized the Koneko, perhaps he even knew he was in Yohji's room. It had seemed to make no difference as long as Yohji was nearby like in the hospital. At first he had continued to reach restlessly for him, taking his hand in a trembling grip after every coughing fit. But after a while he had fallen still, not quite sleeping, but not truly awake either, violet eyes half-lidded and blank, his hand limp against the mattress. The nurse had only shaken her head tightly at Yohji for his worried, inquiring glances at her as the hours of the first night slowly passed.

Morning light had finally filtered into the room, painting Aya's drawn face with delicate rose and gold. He had stared down at the suddenly fragile-seeming form that lay against the ridiculous cushion, the one good hand lying upturned on the mattress, red hair tossed across the fabric like lines of drying blood from the restlessness of before, the breathing tubes in the nose like a desecration, and his heart had ached with guilt and frustration and self-hatred.

What had he done? Had he brought Aya here to his bed to die? Why had he thought Aya would respond here, of all places?

He had spun out of the room then, snatching up his cigarettes and intending to go outside and have a smoke. But he hadn't gotten any further than the kitchen downstairs. His habit had failed him badly over the past few days, when he had needed it most. He couldn't smoke in the hospital; couldn't smoke now around the oxygen Aya needed or contaminate the air he struggled so hard to breathe. He knew he was dangerously tired too. Drained. From worry. From sleep snatched only haphazardly, as he had been almost constantly at Aya's side ever since the recovery room incident nearly a week ago.

That one moment haunted him. The pale trembling of Aya's wounded body. The wild, reasonless glitter of his gaze that had eased only when it settled on him. The charged question. _Safe?_

As the days in the hospital had passed it had slowly invaded his thoughts until the moment was a screaming accusation inside him, a burden of expectation. How had it come to this? He'd never felt the need to linger around anyone ill before. Indeed, had actively avoided it, fastidious and disdainful, haughty in his own good health. Yet he'd somehow fallen into caring for Aya anyway. Fumbling through, feeling inadequate and useless; caught by the desperation with which Aya called his name, the hand groping blindly for his. Staying with him because Aya had come seeking him for something he'd never known how to offer. Safety. What did the other man see in him that had enabled him to walk, bleeding and broken, a good way across Tokyo to find him when only hours before he had disdainfully slapped his concern away? Whatever it was, he had come to him. And in his delirium, only Yohji seemed to bring him any ease.

He stared down at his hands, flat on the table now. Long, elegant, lined by scars from his weapon of choice. And he knew he was deathly afraid that Aya would die, and even more afraid, perhaps, that he would live...

This bond between them - he didn't understand it. It had somehow gone far beyond simple fascination. Yet it wasn't friendship. It wasn't duty. It wasn't even sex. He didn't know how to define it. Didn't know what to think of it, his mind aching with exhaustion. He only knew he couldn't just let Aya fade away.

He pushed the chair back from the table violently. Spun and moved for the stairs, his strides growing more urgent with each step taken until he burst into his room, glaring at the nurse.

"Get out," he snapped at her, feeling fraught and deadly. Her brows raised slightly, but that was the only chink in her impassive façade. She ran her gaze over her patient quickly one last time, nodded to him once, then silently rose to her feet and left the room.

When she was gone, Yohji took the last few strides over to the bed. Climbed up on it until he was leaning braced above Aya's slack body, staring down at his averted face, going by instinct and the ache inside of him. The shaking of the bed had roused Aya slightly. The red head turned toward him slowly; bruised lids raised and violet eyes glimmered at him faintly in the low morning light. The angle of the cushions meant Aya's face was close to his. Close enough to clearly see the defeat and pain etched into his skin, obscuring the lingering traces of beauty.

"Enough of this, Aya," Yohji said, voice rough with anger. "You came to me because I stand up to your shit, I don't swallow your ice-god routine. So _fight_ , you stubborn bastard."

Aya's eyes flickered. His lips parted and he released a shallow half-cough that smelled of corruption and death. Yohji lifted one hand and caught his chin, tilting his head up and he was taken aback by the tingle that went through him on contact with Aya's skin. He'd been holding the man's hand for days; a reaction like that now confused him, diffusing some of the helpless rage that had driven him back up here so abruptly and making him yearn. The violet eyes tracked on him lethargically, aware but resigned.

"What do I have to do to piss you off and make you fight harder? Hit you? Scream at you? Kiss you?" Yohji said, staring narrowly into those unresponsive eyes. But after a moment something flickered in them, a hint of life. "You can't stop me like this, can you? Should I kiss you?"

Yohji leaned closer, almost giddy with his frustration, his longing, his mouth hovering over Aya's lips, fingers tightening on pallid skin.

"No," Aya said at last, the word raw, thick.

"No what? No don't kiss you? No it won't piss you off?"

"Don't... kiss... sick..." The red head tried to turn away but was stuck in his grasp. Yohji pulled back slightly, watching lids flutter over violet eyes. He threatened him and Aya was worried about making him ill? Or was he just being squeamish, trying to save face? Neither reaction was very Aya-like.

He wanted to scream, to cry, but instead he laughed, short and hard. "Right. Like you fucking care, lying here like this. Giving up. Damn you, Aya, you coward... _you came to me_." He shook the pale chin once. "I won't let you go now."

The violet eyes flared for a moment with something deep and desperate and yielding, then hardened into a more familiar glare before Aya abruptly jerked his chin out of Yohji's grasp, greasy red hair tumbling around his face.

"Get off..."

Yohji grinned darkly in satisfaction. "Oh? Pissed you off finally, did I?"

The good hand rose, pushed at his shoulder. He let himself be pushed back by the decidedly weak shove until he sat beside Aya, no longer looming over him. Reaction, at last. Aya glared silently at him for a moment before he began to cough, wet and messy, clutching at his ribs desperately to ease the pain it caused. Yohji forced himself to stay still, though his hands twitched. Forced himself to not offer the pillow and the support he usually did. Intent on his point, now.

When Aya stopped coughing, he lay back against the cushions, glaring at him from under ragged bangs again. There was dampness on his lips as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, but no blood, and a dark, resentful look in his eyes.

"Hurts."

"Does it?" Yohji said, raising one brow doubtfully, lips twisting. "Must mean you're still alive."

"You're a bastard."

"Ooh, swearing at me now are you?" Aya's head jerked to the side, his brows drawn down in a more familiar frown of annoyance. His face was faintly flushed now, and his good hand pushed at the light blanket lying over him.

"I'm hot." There was a hint of petulance in a tone that fell far short of normal Aya snap, but neither was it that shattered silence.

Yohji forced a leer, running his gaze over Aya's body deliberately. "Well, not right now, baby, but maybe after a shower and a shave..."

Aya favored him with a frosty glare from the corner of his eyes before closing them again. "Don't act like an asshole."

"My, my. Another whole sentence - with profanity. Must be my lucky day."

Yohji watched as Aya hitched himself further up against the cushions and pointedly turned his shoulder toward him, while also, apparently, shifting to find a more comfortable position. It was the first time he'd done something like that since his injury. Yohji's heart was racing in his chest, his breathing tight. The smirk-like expression on his face felt wooden and brittle as he fought to conceal the fragile elation sweeping through him. Aya's passive acceptance had been broken for good... maybe. But he would have to pay closer attention now. Have to walk a fine line between aggravation and support to keep a man moody by nature from slipping back into that deadly, resigned despair again.

He stood up, catching just a glimpse of Aya's eyes flying open behind him.

"Well, I'm for a shower," he announced, moving across the room to his closet. He yanked out some clothes, not caring too overly much what he chose, then turned to the door. Aya was still watching him from the bed, eyes narrowed now, with what might have been a touch of peeved annoyance on his face if he'd turned to confirm it. "I'll send the battle-axe back in to keep an eye on you. Watch out for her, Aya, she's tough. Won't smile at me at all." He gave an elaborate shudder and ran his hand through his own greasy hair, shuddering for real at its condition. "I must be slipping."

Aya actually lifted his head from the cushion as he sauntered to the door. Another first. Yohji cast a last, brief look back at him over his shoulder, a saucy grin on his face. Then he stepped outside, the grin falling instantly away as he closed the door behind him. Damn, he was tired. He let his head sag down, lank hair falling around his face. His body trembled and he let out a long, weary breath.

The nurse was waiting by the stairs, a hint of speculation in her eyes. He jerked his head back toward the room behind him as he moved down the hall.

"He's talking again."

"That is a positive sign," was all she said, coming toward him. They passed outside the communal bathroom door. He turned into the bathroom, waiting in the doorway until he was certain she had gone back inside his room. Then he stepped all the way inside the bathroom, closing the door with a quiet click.

* * * * *

Some of the persistent, wearying haze had finally fallen away from his mind. The image of furious green eyes hovering above him, the feel of Yohji's hot breath against his mouth, the taunting words thrown carelessly at him; these things had torn at the enveloping shroud of non-emotion and ever-lurking pain until he was aware of things like humiliation and anger and annoyance again.

When the nurse entered the room he ignored her beyond checking to make certain it wasn't Yohji returning already. Then he lay back and closed his eyes, wearied by the brief flare of his own emotions, by the strain of reacting to Yohji's anger. But it was a different weariness. Less bleak in a way he couldn't, wouldn't identify. He coughed again, grimacing as he pressed his arm around his ribs to fight the pain. Unconsciously longing for Yohji's steady hands to hold him up and ease the motion, missing the way the other man's arm would hold the pillow firm against his chest and diffuse the strain. When the spasm had passed, the nurse impersonally wiped his chin then stuck a thermometer in his mouth. His lip lifted in a snarl but he didn't spit it back out at her. She raised a single eyebrow at him before she took his cast-free wrist between strong fingers to take his pulse.

"If you are in pain you must say so," she said, counting the seconds and the beats of his heart together on her watch. "Pain treatment is less effective if the pain is allowed to rise too high. And healing is impaired when there is constant pain promoting tension." Her flat comments seemed designed to deflect any arguments, not that he could actually make any with a thermometer stuck in his mouth. He settled for glaring at her coldly. He didn't care about her attitude, he only resented the presence of a stranger nearby.

Once she had taken his temperature and pulse and other vitals and noted them in a chart, she stood at the end of the bed, her hands folded in front of her.

"Are you in pain?" she asked. He considered ignoring her, but his gaze flickered to the door briefly. Yohji would be back soon. Yohji would know he was in pain. Yohji always knew. Rather than subject himself to what would no doubt be an undignified, irritating scene before a witness now that Yohji was angry and disgusted with him, he nodded at her curtly. She readied a hypodermic with steady skill, injecting it into the IV line attached to his arm.

He felt the cool rush of medicine through his veins almost immediately, the tingling easing of the lesser aches first. He let his eyes roll shut, feeling all the little irritations of being an invalid rise. The IV. The breathing tubes in his nose. The weakness. The damn catheter.

As the narcotic spread through his body, other impressions rose, phantom and elusive. The persistent ache of his side. The drag in his lungs. The memory-sense of Yohji's hand in his that made his hand twitch closed involuntarily, seeking it. He remembered the steady arm that would brace him whenever a coughing fit took him. The startling fury in green eyes. Their flickering shift to something alarmingly softer amid the anger when fingers grabbed his chin. The unexpected shock that had rolled through him when Yohji had risen from his bed then without a backward look.

He hadn't wanted him to leave. Had wanted to call him back. To hold out his hand and demand the other man's presence. It appalled him, now, that impulse, even though he had not acted on it. When had he become so dependent? How had he allowed Yohji to become the center of his existence? He felt the heaviness of the drug creep through him, tangling his thoughts again when he'd just realized how undisciplined they had become. Had pain and sickness really undermined his will so thoroughly? Or was it something else... something deeper... that connection... a need long ignored... jade-green eyes watching...

Aya fell into a restless sleep, good hand reaching toward the empty chair beside him.

* * * * *

The end-of-the-week deadline Kritiker had given them had come and gone and Aya was still there in his bed. The nurse, thankfully, had left after only three days when it was clear Aya was at last over some intangible hump in the road to recovery and was steadily progressing along it. The inflammation in his lungs had finally loosened and was breaking up in earnest. The downside of that was it required coughing to expel the mucus and cellular debris that had collected in them. Of which by-products of pneumonia and inflammation of the lungs, Yohji reflected with a faint flaring of his nose in disgust, he now knew far more about than he had ever cared to before – and he still defiantly smoked whenever he had the chance. For Aya, however, the healing ribs made that necessary task an exquisitely painful one.

Omi and Ken periodically spelled him in tending Aya, but the bulk of his care still fell on Yohji's shoulders. The nurse's departure had meant many things went with her; the IV and the catheter being the most significant. Aya had been obviously relieved by the removal of those indignities. However, the powerful oral antibiotics he'd been prescribed to replace the intravenous ones left him feeling constantly sick.

Aya was in pain. Aya was nauseated. Aya had to ask for assistance whenever he needed to take a piss. Therefore, most of the time Aya was... unpleasant... to be around. He was all frigid glares and brittle impatience, snapping out orders when displeased and bitterly resentful of efforts to help him, yet too weak to do without assistance. Ken would fly into a rage after about twenty-five minutes and storm out. Omi would stick, but would be reduced to near-tears by the end of whatever span of time Yohji could talk him into taking. When Yohji was around, his behavior was still foul, but less...vicious. Or so Omi claimed. After a while, Yohji gave up and just let the other two take care of the rest of the workload caring for an invalid entailed – bringing up food and medicines and doing laundry – as well as running the flower shop and attending to other duties Weiß was still expected to perform for their masters, even in their greatly reduced state.

He had left the futon set up on the floor by the foot of the bed for the nurse in place to use himself. He just didn't get much chance to use it. A recovering Aya was a lot of fucking work.

"Do you really have to be such a complete bastard all the time?" Yohji asked him one cloudy-dark afternoon after releasing Omi from what must have been – judging from the poor chibi's blasted expression and hasty retreat – a hellish two hour watch. Yohji, however, was feeling unusually serene after the rare luxury of smoking three whole cigarettes and nearly two hours of feeling the wind in his hair in the Super Seven. It had been cold and chilly out, but he hadn't cared, it had been his first outing in days.

"Where were you?" Aya snapped, violet eyes glaring at him poisonously from under bangs that had grown longer than Aya usually allowed. He looked drawn and restless. Yet when he'd left, Aya had been napping. He was sitting up in bed now, leaning against the stacked cushions, legs curled under him, the trash can beside the bed half full of crumpled tissue. A fresh box of tissue was perched on the nightstand beside him along with a glass of water and a stack of newspapers. Omi had taken good care of Aya while he was gone despite his nasty attitude. The man couldn't go without a box of tissue handy, not with the crap he coughed up regularly.

The cushion with the little ducks and chicks on it had been dumped under the bed again. Yohji grinned faintly to see that. He'd been right that Aya loathed it on sight no matter its practical usefulness. He looked up, still grinning, to find Aya still glaring at him, waiting for his answer.

"Ken and I went to retrieve your car from impound," Yohji said, slipping out of his coat at last and tossing it over a chair instead of hanging it up in the closet. Aya frowned at his lack of neatness but didn't comment. For once.

"And?"

"And what? I went for a drive." He moved to stand in front of the window. Stretched his arms out wide before it, arching his back and letting out a deep sound of relaxed appreciation. It had been good to get out. His gaze wandered along with his thoughts, not quite ready to return to the sickroom and Aya's venom. Definitely looked like rain out there now. Steel-gray clouds were hovering over the city. He was glad he'd got the Seven back in the garage before the weather broke. The canvas top had been repaired at last, but he'd not had time to pick it up and re-install it.

"How's my car?"

A teasing smile twisted his mouth. "White. German. Boring. Ken drove it back."

"Ken?" There was chilly outrage in that name.

Yohji glanced over his shoulder to find Aya with his lip curled and a dark look on his face just before he began coughing again. Yohji moved instantly to his side, grabbing up a pillow and pressing it to Aya's left side before wrapping his arm over it as he slid onto the bed beside the convulsing redhead. Aya's good hand covered his mouth and his face had gone red with effort and pain. The spasm lasted for endless minutes and when it was done Aya was flushed and shuddery, falling back against Yohji's chest limply. His head rolled onto Yohji's shoulder as his hand fell away from his mouth. They lay together like that until he had the short, hitching breaths a fit left him with under control, then Aya pulled slowly away, reaching for the box of tissue to clean off his hand.

Without comment, Yohji settled the pillow beside Aya and waited for him to move back, bracing himself against the piled-up cushions. Aya settled back down with a sigh, letting Yohji's chest support his aching left side. Body warmth, Aya had admitted once when he was taking stronger pain drugs, felt good to him after a coughing bout. Yohji lay still behind him, careful not to put his arm around him. Outside of his coughing fits, Aya had taken to shrugging off anything that resembled an embrace. He no longer reached for Yohji's hand when he slept.

Yet this prickly tyrant was far better than the listless mess he'd been when Yohji first brought him back. His left lung was still very weak after the partial collapse and the pneumonia. So far any walking around that consisted of more than moving to the bathroom and back prompted a wracking attack that left him white-lipped and breathless for minutes. There was an oxygen tank nearby with a mask just in case. His recovery was slow, which clearly frustrated Aya. He was normally an active man, working and training hard, one used to feeling strong and capable. One used to a body that obeyed him rather than betrayed him. He had a hard time accepting that his body simply needed time to recover before he could make demands of it again. One brief surge of rebellion by attempting a trip downstairs had left him debilitated enough to concede the point for now, but resentful of his own weakness.

Yohji closed his eyes and wearily waited for the inevitable moment when Aya would begin to move restlessly against him – wanting him to move away. He tried to recapture the contentment he'd brought back to this room from the drive in the open air, but couldn't against the heavy scent of illness that pervaded the room and the feel of Aya against him. It was the feel of Aya that distracted him the most. Enticing and tormenting him. He sighed softly, tilting his head forward so that the strands of Aya's hair just brushed against his cheek.

There was a moment of stillness, then to his surprise he felt Aya's good hand fumble slowly over the cast on his left arm and reach back, groping for Yohji's hand. He let Aya pull his arm forward, and carefully draped it across the man's upper arm so no pressure went on either the cast or the sore ribs. Aya's fingers wound themselves in his as the redhead's breathing smoothed out and deepened and Aya slowly went slack against him in apparent slumber.

He felt the stir of arousal then, familiar and heady. It came often when he was close to Aya now. Something he hadn't quite expected, despite his attraction for the man, his concern for him, his appreciation of his beauty. It seemed disconnected, somehow, from his usual impatient lust, though no less powerful. There were women and then there was Aya.

He didn't know if Aya had recognized his desire yet. Didn't know if it would disgust him or alarm him or just plain annoy him when he did recognize it. If he ever did. Yohji was careful to keep the more blatant effects hidden, an instinctive, protective reaction.

This time he had no chance to hide it. Yohji held his breath when Aya shifted back against him in his restlessness, his shoulder falling back so he lay more fully against him, thigh slipping along thigh. He let the breath out carefully as the redhead settled deeper into his hold, becoming a definite weight against him, completely asleep. His erection pulsed gently in his tight pants against the sharp curve of Aya's hip. There was no urgency to his desire because he knew it would have to stay unfulfilled, but it remained, a subtle distraction. He wished, idly, that he'd thought to slip his boots off before climbing up here. The bed was soft, the day gray and cold and dark beyond the room. Aya was calm and silent, a warm weight against him. He yawned, weary from too many nights of snatched sleep, too many hours filled with uncertainty.

Habit kept him awake for a while, making him peel his eyes open and listen in concern each time Aya's breathing seemed to catch, wondering if a coughing fit was coming on. He dozed at last, until, tangled in half-remembered dreams, he found himself rocking his hips slowly against Aya in a languid roll that pressed the ridge of hard flesh that refused to subside tight between them. It was sweet torment to feel Aya's body so relaxed against him. It was almost like surrender. As if Aya had yielded everything to him and only waited for him to take what he desired. An intoxicating fantasy. Yohji stifled a small moan, burying his face against Aya's head behind his ear, lips moving softly, seeking. His muddled mind understood how utterly inappropriate it was to crave more, yet his body refused to listen.

He couldn't make it fade, but it was an easy thing, this desire, spiraling through him lazily. Leaving him content with the small shift of Aya's head that let his lips graze his ear. Tasting Aya's skin for the first time with the tip of his tongue and barely parted lips made him groan quietly. Aya made a sound too. A soft query, maybe, and he opened his mouth further, breath washing over the delicate arc of Aya's ear, tongue slipping inside and down the curve. The ball of the earring below tasted sharply of metal in contrast to the subdued taste of skin.

Yohji was barely aware of slipping Aya inexorably beneath him with each brush of lip to skin, each gently sucking kiss. Only ingrained habit kept his weight off injured side and arm; he was barely aware of anything save the pale expanse of throat beneath Aya's ear, the sparse dusting of stubble on his chin, the strands of thick red hair that lay scattered across it all. He moved his mouth along that arch, his own hair tumbling around them both. The hand in his convulsed suddenly, gripping him tightly and the chin above him twisted back, turning away, exposing more throat to his caress. He followed it eagerly, nipping gently at the pale skin.

Then Aya coughed, deep and hard, the force vibrating against his mouth. Yohji jerked back, alarmed, and it was like waking up from a wet-dream, shamed and confused. Aya coughed twice more, the effort shaking them both, then lowered his chin and mercifully the spasms subsided.

Yohji waited, poised and tense, for a reaction. He was half lying over Aya, a leg slipped between his. His erection was trapped hard and obvious between them. He had been kissing his ear, his neck. There could be no misunderstanding. No way to laugh this off or brush it aside, even if he had cared to try.

Eyes slid fractionally open, watching him sidelong, unreadable. The silence stretched, taut; Aya's face, expressionless.

Disgust, scorn, outrage; he was prepared for anything except this seeming indifference. But there was no other reaction until the hand clenched firmly on his slowly relaxed and Aya's eyes closed again, lashes lying long on deeply circled skin, furrows gathering between the dark brows. The signs of pain. Routine kicked in, stabbing him with guilt for his lapse. How long had it been since his last dose?

"Tired. Hurt." Hearing the deep voice at last almost startled him.

"I forgot... your pills... sorry," Yohji whispered, tugging his hand free, feeling the blood drain out of his face, dread and loss building inside him. Pain and guilt would follow later, he knew. Now he was numb. He moved away from Aya, gaze lowered, silently cursing himself for letting his body overrule his sense. He put one foot on the floor, the scuff of his boot abnormally loud in the taut stillness. Aya's head shifted slightly, lifted, and he frowned.

"Don't..." Aya said.

Yohji paused. Waited for breathless, pulsing seconds, but no words followed. "Don't what?" he prompted huskily, frozen at the edge of the bed, reluctant to ask but needing to know. Aya's non-reaction disturbed him more than fury or disgust would have, left him floundering and uncertain.

"...don't leave..." A whisper. Thin and raw.

For one blinding second he thought his heart had stopped, then it crashed on in heavy, uneven thumps. Staring at the heavy-lidded eyes that were watching him again, the faintest of glimmers beneath dark lashes, he let out a shuddering breath and slowly shook his head, never breaking that stare.

"You better know what you're saying... Aya... do you?"

"Don't leave." Stronger now. Firmer. The eyes slid open wider, showing violet. Aware. Intent.

He leaned back toward the center of the bed, arm trembling as it held him up. Aya lay still against his bracing cushions, watching, no shifting away, but no open welcome either. Yohji swallowed, the action tough with his suddenly dry throat.

"You mean in this bed... beside you..."

"Don't be deliberately stupid." A flash of irritation, of impatience.

"Not stupid - _clear_."

"Hn." The violet eyes flared, narrowed, a flush creeping along pale cheeks now. But he didn't hesitate over the next words. "Yes then. Come here."

Yohji reached down and tugged his boots off. They fell on the floor, one after the other, with loud thumps. Socks followed. Too impatient to remove more, he shifted aside and lifted the thin blanket that covered Aya. He slid beneath it, moving across the bed until he felt his bare foot brush against Aya's. He folded himself carefully around Aya, draping his arm over his upper chest, tucking the red head beneath his chin as he pulled the other man half atop his own chest. Aya allowed it with a gusting sigh, relaxing back into the hold after settling the left arm in it's cast more comfortably beside them.

They lay in silence. Yohji concentrating on the feel of his own pulse reflected back from Aya's body, counterpoint to his, on listening to the faintly rough sound of Aya's breaths. Scarcely believing the turn of events, yet at the same time feeling as if the inevitable had finally been acknowledged. It had always been there, even if both of them had been too stubborn, too bitter, too self-involved to see it. Aya turned his head after a while, his hand rising to lay over Yohji's on his chest, twining their fingers together. No hesitation, just a reaching. A desire for more contact.

"This is dangerous," Aya said. Implications of that simple phrase crashed through him. The risks to both of them - physical, mental, emotional - because neither of them were reasonable men. Yohji let out a soft snort, lips twisting in a wry smile. Because he knew what Aya really meant. Acceptance had come at some point during the hours of pain and need endured together. There was no need to discuss it. It just _was_ now.

"Yeah, they already know." Kritiker. Their mutual masters. The ones who had brought them together. The ones who could still kill them for this betrayal. Dead men who dared to live again.

"I have... an obligation..." Aya said quietly. "My sister... I can't leave her behind."

Yohji closed his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. "Then we'll just take her with us."

\- - fin - -


End file.
